When It's Not Just Lust Anymore
by uneecrivaine
Summary: BRALLIE. Set in 1x09, Vigil, when Brandon overhears Callie's late-night exchangement with Jude. A quiet kitchen and a couple of confessions later, they're not the same. Two heated little make-out sessions because I couldn't help it, sorry. RxR. Twoshot. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

"No. This family's not like ours. They're lucky."

It takes the average person seven minutes to fall asleep. But Brandon knows Callie is nowhere near average, in fact, he may never be able to comprehend her, but he is willing to try. Which is why he waits precisely seven minutes after Callie soothes Jude back to sleep, knowing she won't follow suit. Especially not after a speech like that. He could imagine it now, her mind going a mile a minute, her back facing the rest of the family, feigning slumber. The afghan hangs loosely over her back, but he can see her breathing is uneven and very much a conscious effort.

Those seven minutes tick by agonizingly, but he watches her the whole time, partly to make sure she doesn't actually fall asleep for once, but mostly because he likes the way those few strands of hair grate across the pillow as she exhales. She thinks she is the only one awake until he stands and ambles by her, heading for the kitchen.

She thinks for a moment she should just leave him alone, he probably doesn't even know she's awake. But she remembers when she was him, and the fragile fate of her mother hung oppressively in the air, leaving dumbbells in her lungs. She wishes someone were there to tell her it would all be okay, even if it would all end up one big lie.

So she follows. Like he hoped she would.

He is already pouring milk in a glass when she stops in the doorway, and as she pulls her sweater together at her stomach, she has to say, "That's very cliché of you."

They offer eachother small smiles and takes seats opposite each other, the chaos of the day making its first appearances on their faces in the straining light of the kitchen. They keep it low on the dimmer switch, as to not wake the others, but in contrast with the thick, black sky, it's almost too much.

"Always works when I can't sleep."

She runs a hand through her hair, but it ends up just falling against her face again. Brandon doesn't mind. It keeps his mind off other things. She keeps his mind off other things. "Never been too fond of milk."

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

Something on her face tells him he should drop the subject now, so he opens his mouth to back track, but she actually speaks. "I mean, I used to like it. My mom...she, uh, used to warm it up for me and Jude before bed every night. I don't recall having many nightmares."

She seems to leave room for more, so Brandon doesn't speak, he just stares at her, something similar to fondness bouncing between his eyes. "I guess few people do that. None of the foster houses we were placed in after her death did something like that. It hurt because Jude would tell me so often that he wished she was there to do it again, and that was one thing I couldn't fix or replace for him."

At this point, he's just glad she's not crying, but he can hear the pain in her voice, and he can see it in the way she rolls her shoulders back, waiting for the pop that tells her something is wrong or something is right again. She's sore, but it's not just on the surface. "Don't beat yourself up over it. You're really good with Jude. Since he's been here, I don't recall ever seeing him sad."

Her shoulders rise and fall and he can't decide if it's her shrugging or it's getting harder for her to breathe. "I guess he's just better at hiding it than me."

He downs the last of his milk, figuring it's probably better for her if the liquid is out of sight again. "Good. I don't want you to fake anything, Callie. I want to know when I can help you."

He sounds so serious when he says it, so gruff yet so soft in its nature, that she has to cough a little to get the air flowing again in her throat. "Brandon," she breathes, and there's the slightest of laughter in it, mixed with a little scoff, "I came to help _you_. I don't want you to make this about me."

He stands almost silently from his stool, coming around to her side of the table so he can stand over her. He bends his elbow, palm on the table, leaning into her, and even Callie herself is a little surprised when she doesn't immediately tear her eyes away from his. In fact, their gaze is unfaltering as he mumbles, "Help me, then. I need you, Callie."

She's convinced she doesn't have a heart anymore, or it has stopped, because it is beating so fast she can no longer feel it, no longer can hear it pounding in her ears. Something stirs in her stomach, her breath hitches, and a voice that is not hers replies, "I need you, too."

Lips, hot and hungry, are on hers.

She's hungrier.

Brandon is kneeling on the foot rest of her stool, though he still holds a few inches on her. He's gripping the sides of her sweater, accidentally pulling one side of it under her shoulder, exposing a portion of the creamy skin on her collarbone. But it feels sexy, and she doesn't bother to fix it. Her hand glides through his hair and he shows his appreciation of the gesture by returning it, running his thumb across the hollow of her throat to the end of her collarbone. She whimpers, but it's not one of sadness, it's not one she knows too well. It's one she doesn't know enough, and Brandon agrees, desperate to hear that noise again.

It sends him over the edge, and he grabs her by the hips and slips her off the stool, simultaneously falling back onto the tile. She lands in his lap, straddling his hips, shifting around on his strong body until he elicits a groan. She grips his biceps, feeling all the muscles in them working together as he supports her small frame, his hands on her ribcage, just under her chest. Not in the danger zone, but enough to drive her crazy.

Their lips hardly part.

Space seems nonexistent between the two, but Brandon needs her closer, and he's pulling her tighter against him, trying to fill the space that doesn't exist. His shirt becomes balls of cloth in her fists as her body tenses, her neck exposed once again, and then his lips are pulling apart from hers to press against the cool hollow of her throat, which is deeper than usual as she holds her breath. "Brandon,"

He wants her to stop saying his name but he can't make sense of anything. Everything seems logical in the heat of the moment, even commiting a few sins. But is this a sin? It could never be.

But if it is, save him a seat in hell.

"Not here," she finally manages, and he can feel it vibrate against his lips as she speaks. He pulls back to look at her, and she's huffing through swollen lips, hair and garments disheveled, "not now."

He agrees without a second thought, but it takes a lot for him to cool down, especially since she's still sitting in his lap, fingers curled around his trapezius muscles. "Sorry."

"Mm." She lets her forehead fall to one of his shoulders, mumbling against it. "Don't be."

They stay that way for a while, almost innocent in their position, so if someone were to wake, there would be little suspicion. Brandon is hoping the low hum of the freezer ice machine will put Callie to sleep, but she continues to stir every few minutes, clenching and unclenching his shirt in her fingers. He knows she's probably more awake now than ever, so he urges her to go lie down while he remains in the kitchen.

And when he flicks off the kitchen light and comes to try to get some sleep himself, he stops by her restless form to place a kiss in her hair and a mug of warm milk by her side.

Not one sip and she's asleep.

**fin.**

_+5 cool points for those that review_


	2. Chapter 2

The blinds are drawn tightly, and though the first few rays of sun manage to squeeze through, it is not what wakes Callie up. Instead, it is the soft sound of something sizzling on the stove, the startings of breakfast, she assumes, since the smell of whatever is hitting the pan hasn't yet reached her nose. She glances around the room, finding everyone asleep and still in their sleeping bags except Brandon, who also, it appears, picked up the mug of milk she didn't drink.

She feels slightly bad for a moment, but she knows Brandon's smart, and probably knew what he was doing when he gave her that milk, and if not that, then he still understands. Gingerly, she slips out of her blanket, eyes on Jude the whole time. She would really like it if it could be just the two of them alone again for a while, even if just for a few minutes. The thought ignites something in her cheeks and she tries to stop the strings pulling at the corners of her lips, but when she makes it to the doorway, she has to smile again. "So, are you Beethoven or Gordon Ramsay? You can't be both."_  
_

He's just about to flip the first set of pancakes over when he looks over his shoulder at her, fighting back a goofy grin. "Pancake preference?"

She pads over to the fridge and pries an unopened basket of blueberries from an overflowing produce drawer, flashing them at him as she makes her way over to the sink to rinse them. "Easiest way to get Jude to eat his fruit."

He's slightly amused, and genuinely incredulous. "Who doesn't like fruit?"

"I mean, he'll eat it, but it's not without a cringe or two." She tosses a blueberry in her mouth as she comes to stand next to him, feeling it pop between her back teeth, its sweet juices coating her tongue, and when she looks up at him and finds him watching her with such raw infatuation, her face burns, but not from the heat of the griddle.

He soaks up her reaction and feeds off of it, grabbing a handful of the blue fruit and sprinkling them over the fresh set of flapjacks. "You must have a bunch of tricks when it comes to Jude."

She's staring at the long muscles in his forearms, watching them twitch as he carefully flips over the pancakes. Her mouth is watering but she has yet to catch a waft of the pancakes. Still slightly mesmerized, she mumbles, "Thank you, Brandon. For always being just what I need."

He's taking in her gratitude as he scrapes off the confections and pours four more. He wants to freeze in this moment, make it forever the morning, forever just him & Callie, because when it just them, he can temporarily release the worry he holds for his mother, as Lena so often urges him to do. He sets down the spatula and looks down at her, catching those chocolate eyes dilate as they focus on him. He's mostly talking to himself as he mutters, but Callie still catches him in the almost silent kitchen. "God, why do you have to be spoken for?"

But this reminder is, for the most part, pointless, as he still finds himself brushing her hair off one shoulder, exposing still-marked skin from where she slept on the uneven floor. Her eyes are childishly innocent, her lips are pulling part slowly, and he can actually see as they peel away from each other, he's that close. His thumb is slipping under the skinny strap of her tank top and something is radiating from her sternum at his touch, and then he's sliding it off her shoulder, his hands so light on her back that she leans into him slightly, wanting to feel him more.

"I don't...I mean I'm not..." his fingers are grazing the sensitive skin of collarbone, and she can feel it in every vertebrae, rendering her speechless. He presses his lips to the spot where her neck and ear connect, and her lids are heavy again, ready for sweet sleep. "I'm not spoken for. Please,"

She spins and grips both sides of his unbuttoned shirt, in hopes to steady herself. The corner of his lip is curving, but for the most part, he remains serious as he asks, "Wyatt?"

"Just friends," she whispers, and the second the words leave her mouth, his is on hers, and he's pushing her backwards to pin her to the counter. He tastes like coffee, and he feels like coffee, strong but comforting as he wraps her in his arms, determined not to let go this time. She tastes like blueberries, but sweeter, and while they're not his favorite fruit, he knows he could live off the taste of her lips alone.

She swears some of his caffeine has already made it to her bloodstream, jolting her awake in a matter of seconds, and she's pulling him by his shirt into her, longing for more, when she smells something foul. He does, too, because they both pull away at the same time, sniffing the air warily. Callie starts, "What's burning?" but before they can ponder, they've already figured it out.

Brandon's expression is a mixture of pure annoyance and regret as he turns to the already blackened pancakes, billowing smoke and triggering the kitchen alarms. "Shit."

* * *

**A/N: So a lot of you guys reviewed and said you wanted some sort of continuation, so I added on this short little two-shot to tide us all over. Thanks again to all my reviewers and especially my anonymous reviewers, I would love to be able to respond to you personally, but alas, I cannot. It's bittersweet knowing tonight is the finale of The Fosters, and though it will be returning in January, I'm not sure I will be able to last! So right now I've got a few ideas swirling around my head, definitely some more one-shots I'll be posting (feel free to check out my other oneshots on my page, too), and I'm even thinking of a Fosters: Season Two story, where I will continue the show from the finale (though it will obviously not be what actually happens when the show returns) and updating a new chapter every monday until the show returns. Let me know what you guys think of this chapter and of my ideas, I'd love some sweet motivation! xoxo**


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